CHARGED-UP RESULTS

To whom it may concern,  Have you ever asked yourself who is holding the pen to your life story?  There are moments when you look back at your life as if it were a book, every experience a page, every year a chapter. The funny thing is you realize you never actually agreed to write it. Page after page and chapter after chapter have already been written for you. Paths you did not choose or ask for. Decisions were made in courts and conference rooms where your presence was not needed. Plans were drafted for your future by people who never asked who you hoped to become. For an exceedingly long time, you were not the author of your own story. Your story has been shaped by systems, strangers, case numbers, expectations and society; anyone and everything else except you. Your circumstances were shaped by adults who “knew better.” Your narrative was not yours to begin with. It was already planned and labeled before you got to say a word.  They say, “You are the author of your own story.” But let’s be honest, are you really? How can one be the author of one’s own life when they are not given any choice? When you have been told where to live, who to trust and what to feel until your own thoughts fade away and you just start to follow the script. Your identity has been reduced to statistics, stereotypes and a box that you barely fit in.  You never got to write the beginning, did you?  None of you ever got to write the beginning of your story. It has already been written and set in stone for you to follow like an obedient child. You wake up and get on the hamster wheel, thinking you are going somewhere. But are you? Have you ever thought about the fact that you are just running in endless circles? No, because everyone else is also doing it and many pages of your story tell you to do so. How do you stop the circle? How do you even know you are in an endless cycle? Now, the question that haunts all of us: Are you ever allowed to reclaim the pen? And if you do then what? Will the story be done then, or are you going to write over it? Can you simply start fresh? Trying to cover a deep scar with a tattoo does not quite erase the pain. Just the look of it from the outside. The body and the mind remember. Do you wonder if, maybe, just maybe, the power does not come from rewriting or erasing the past? Maybe it comes from acceptance and refusing to let it define you? Strength is not about forgetting the pain or running away from it. You only become stronger once you have embraced and made peace with the past.  On the days when you feel like a side character in your own story, when your voice gets small and your hands feel too weak to hold the pen, do not get comfortable with someone else drafting your story. Even if you have learned to sit back and let others speak for you. Even if you are afraid of what your own voice will sound like, use it anyway. You must still crave control, even if it scares you.  Here is the truth: you can, and you will take the pen back. No matter how your voice sounds, you can write it out. Write badly. Write nervously. Write beautifully raw and honest. Whether it is a whisper or a shout, you can choose the next word, the next sentence, the next chapter, good or bad. You are allowed to fear the pen but still write anyway. Don’t worry about what others may think because guess what? At the end of the day, it is “me, myself and I.” Be selfish because you deserve to be after years of following orders like a puppet. Make mistakes on your own terms and scold yourself if you want. You can reclaim what has always been yours from the start. The story is yours and you are the main character. Not the victim, not the side character, not a stereotype, but the protagonist of a perfect story that is still being defined. You can stumble and fumble with the words. Make as many mistakes as you want and still own every word of it. A story that gets to be whatever you want it to be because it is yours. With love, Someone who took back their pen.

In a bid to balance a multi-million dollar loss in revenue from international students, the University of New Haven has fired or merged the responsibilities of some 46 faculty and staff members since June 2025. Jens Frederiksen, UNH president, and other cabinet leaders confirmed growing student concerns about missing staff during a public assembly with the undergraduate student government association in October. Included in that figure are staff members under the umbrella of diversity, equity, inclusion, accessibility and belonging. Some have been terminated, while some have had their responsibilities merged under different titles. The position of vice president for institutional diversity and inclusion,  created by the USGA vice president of community advocacy and diversity in 2023, has been eliminated since the firing of Barbara Lawrence  in May. This academic year, the university has 2,300 fewer students attending on F-1 student visas, which effectively removed $28 million from the university’s 2025-2026 budget, according to Frederiksen and Deborah Flonc, associate vice president for budgets and financial planning. Figures from 2023 show   83% of the university operating budget  comes from enrollment. Flonc said the dip in enrollment has been anticipated since March, within the annual budget proposal period. While Frederiksen described the international enrollment cliff as ‘catastrophic’ during talks with students, Flonc feels differently, expressing her excitement for career services and student affairs initiatives. “I wouldn’t even call it a crisis necessarily,” Flonc said. “What we are going through right now is a blip, and it is a phenomenal opportunity for the university to really dig into all of the different departments.” “We’re doing a lot of assessing at a very granular level to make sure that we’re investing in the right areas of the university,” said Flonc, "and sort of redirect funding so that it's in places that make sense.” At an October town hall meeting hosted by the USGA and the Graduate Student Council, Frederiksen answered questions about the school’s financial challenges. Frederiksen withheld comments pertaining to ‘personnel matters’, as he referred to them as. Together, roughly 140 students attended, as well as multicultural RSO leaders like Nicole ‘Nikki’ Rosario, president of Latin American Student Association. “But I think what people are asking is,” said Rosario, “how is the university looking to help the minorities who are directly being affected?” “Though we do get a certain sense of support, it does feel a little empty when these people are being fired.” Rosario said, “That's a group of people who [are] losing their voice.” “Well, it's always a little bit more complex than that, right?” Frederiksen said to Rosario, “What I can say is that funding will continue, and if there are individuals who are leaving, for whatever reason that may be, that we will continue to invest in that area and continue to have staff there to support.” At the meeting, Gabriel Aliendro, diversity peer educator in the myatt center for diversity and inclusion , asked Frederiksen, “How are we establishing a community on campus despite this recent cycle of terminations? Because we cannot effectively establish a community without grounded foundations within the faculty.” “I could be sort of delusional and say we're going to spend and we're going to invest,” said Frederiksen in return, “but then there wouldn't be any programs to run, right?” When contacted by Horseshoe, Frederiksen issued a statement in which he said that “no particular demographic was targeted” in the firing process. “The university carefully approached its reduction in headcount through a workforce-planning process,” said Frederiksen. “We also conducted a reassessment of functional needs to ensure that staffing decisions were made thoughtfully, responsibly, and in support of the institution’s long-term goals.” Jen Cinque, vice president of human resources, declined an interview with Horseshoe and said, “Based on the response [Frederiksen] provided, I do not have any additional information or context to offer.” Bonnie Urciuoli, professor of anthropology at Hamilton College, says Black students rely on multicultural faculty mentorship for success, in the ethnographic  study "Neoliberalizing Markedness: the Interpolation of ‘Diverse’ College Students." . Affiliations within the university, she says, provide students isolated bubbles of opportunity where there are none elsewhere. Before he was fired in September, Kenneth Notorino Jeffrey was MCDI assistant director and advisor to four Black and Latino organizations. Jeffrey helped to coordinate the ‘Men of Color Collective,’ a Black mentorship affinity group, with other faculty. His door was marked with flowers and affirmations from students before the nameplate was removed by facilities. In March 2025, the mentorship group changed its name to “Men's Collective.” Brian Ibarra, former faculty in the dean of students office, founded MOCC but left at the start of this semester. Timothy Prince, who had been coordinator of leadership diversity and inclusion since 2023, also left the university in October, saying he struggled with the decision because of his relationship to students in multicultural RSOs. “Nobody ever thinks it’ll happen to them,” said Prince, “but I’ve seen three waves of this.” The job terminations of his friends and colleagues pressured Prince toward the ultimate decision of leaving his position in the center for student engagement leadership and orientation. Prince said he offered to stay with the university if he was promoted to assistant director of the Myatt Center, but administrators asked him to wait a year to have that conversation. Prince’s UNH position, listed in the university job opportunities  index, is now titled “Assistant Director of Student Leadership & Intercultural Engagement” .  That is three roles merged into one new position, (MCDI assistant director, associate director for fraternity/sorority life and programming and coordinator for leadership diversity and inclusion). The recent change removes “DEI” from Prince’s former title. One of the first to hear of faculty firings was Sheraud Wilder, a senior in psychology and president of the Gamma Alpha Tau chapter of Phi Beta Sigma Fraternity, Inc. Jurea McIntosh, sister of Zeta Phi Beta Sorority Inc., told Wilder she was terminated in July from her role as associate director for fraternity/sorority life and programming. Since beginning her role in 2024, McIntosh has frequently collaborated with Prince to advise the multicultural Greek Council. “Jurea tirelessly worked day in and day out,” said Wilder in a letter to Horseshoe Magazine, “to ensure that the FSL community was not only revived but thriving prosperously. Only to silently exit the university without any acknowledgment of the impact she left.” In Urciuoli’s study, she listened to stories from students and staff and explored the conflicts instigated by university leadership in their mistreatment of crucial student services, which are “seen from the outset as a diversity delivery vehicle.” One surveyed student  echoed Wilder’s sentiment. “One by one all these people who were so key in bringing us here started leaving,” they said, “and we started to see the qualms about our program on this campus.” Urciuoli’s research builds on a 2011 study, Ilana Gershon's ‘Neoliberal Agency.’  The capacity or act of exerting power, the agency to bring about change , is different from Gershon's ‘neoliberal agency.’ In agreement, Urciuoli says BIPOCs’ choices “are between limited possibilities, with the structural reasons for the limitations systematically overlooked.” Therefore, institutions have continued loosely establishing DEIAB programs, Gershon says, “as long as the cultural difference at stake can be commodified or otherwise marketed.” “For the more racially marked,” Urciuoli said, “their primary social function is their appeal…these [constructed pressures] reinforce rather than mitigate students’ markedness because they are the only ways in which students can acquire symbolic capital.”

I vividly remember my mom telling me to flip my head over and applying Aussie Sprunch Spray in my hair when I was a kid. I had brown ringlets with blonde highlights because my mom would also spray Sun-In all over my curls. Everyone called me Shirley Temple and people with naturally straight hair would tell me that they wish they had mine. I felt the same exact way. All I ever wanted was their hair. You can only brush curly hair when it’s wet, or else you’d look like a circus clown. And because of me not knowing how to properly maintain my curls, my mom would have to cut the knotted parts out. That’s why I started having my mom straighten my hair. And eventually, I did it myself. It was a miraculous discovery! I could brush my hair as much as I wanted. My hair was even longer when it was straight. Who cares that it took over an hour to straighten my thick head of hair? I could finally look like everyone else. Except I still didn’t. I felt like the mermaids in “H2O: Just Add Water” when they were trying to avoid getting a drop of water on them. Because if the tiniest bit of water dripped onto my hair, my secret would be revealed. I wasn’t like everybody else. I was a straight-hair fraud. The rain was my enemy. Pools would make me choose between ruining my hair or putting it up and having to yell at anyone who splashes around me. Even if there was no water, my straight hair could easily be ruined by a little bit of humidity. Getting ready for picture day consisted of me running the flat iron over my hair as many times as humanly possible to try and prevent my hair from essentially inflating. There was no use in trying to keep my hair straight if I had gym right before the time my pictures were scheduled. Much to my dismay, the curls always came back. That’s why I begged my mom to take me to get a Brazilian blowout when I was in middle school. I subjected myself to over two hours in a salon chair where all I could focus on was the horrendous stench coming from the formaldehyde in the products. All so I could straighten my hair more easily and have it last longer. I don’t even think it made that much of a difference. My hair was wavy after that, but still with the unwanted thickness and frizz that came with my curls. It only lasted for a couple of months and the treatment was so expensive. So I only got the blowout that one time. I can’t remember a moment where I wasn’t trying to conceal my natural appearance. In high school, I spent so much time in the drama club. In my senior year, I was cast as Medda Larkin in “Newsies.” That was not a straight-haired role. My director came into the dressing room to discuss my character’s look and she said, “So, a little birdie told me your hair is naturally curly.” I immediately rejected the mere idea of wearing my natural hair in a stage performance. My curls were a nuisance to me. I remember I said to my director, “They’re not pretty curls. It’s just a mess.” So, for the dress rehearsals and the show dates, I would re-straighten my hair and then have a cast member’s sister curl it. I went out of my way to mimic something that I naturally had because I felt it wasn’t good enough. I thought my natural curls made me look like I didn’t try. I didn’t feel pretty with them. The last time I did was when my mom fully took care of it. But I couldn’t be an adult who depended on her mother to do her hair for her.  It wasn’t until my sophomore year in college that I finally freed my hair from the flat iron. It’s going to sound silly, but I felt inspired to learn more about curly hair because of Chappell Roan. She didn’t have perfect hair. It had frizz. It looked wild. And it still looked beautiful. My hair didn’t look good at all at first. I also started wearing my glasses all the time. When I looked in the mirror, all I saw was Woody from “The Suite Life on Deck.” And when I thought I found a perfect routine (Rizo’s curl products), I started getting pomade acne from the oils in the hair products. So, I had to completely switch up my styling and look for products that had no pore-clogging ingredients. I would copy and paste every ingredient from a gel, cream, or mousse into an ingredient-checking website I found from TikTok.  During this period, I straightened my hair one time when I was going to get my hair cut because I know they charge extra to untangle hair. I came to campus with straight hair and got compliments on it from multiple people. It kind of brought me back to the mindset I had all my life. But another part of me viewed it as a challenge. I would make people adore my curls if it was the last thing I ever did. It took over a year of trial and error with different products, but I finally have a routine that I think works for me. A lot of the magic comes from what used to be my enemy: water. I do, however, credit my Bounce Curl brush for the main transformation.  Now, my mom compares my hair to ribbon candy and is jealous of the way it looks. The kids at my work are always playing with my curls and I cringe on the inside because I’m scared they’ll ruin my masterpiece. I secretly love it, though, because people are finally positively commenting on my real hair again.  Some people have even asked me for my routine. I usually give a very long-winded explanation about it. But the most important step is to stop covering up the natural beauty and find ways to accentuate and embrace it.

This is the story of a headless mannequin’s journey through tragedy and triumph, as well as how she ended up at a college house concert party, as the center of attention for the first time in her life. In order to properly understand how Rachel was thrown into this life-changing situation, we have to first understand how I came to meet her.  On a Saturday, I and a fellow classmate ventured out to the far away land of Goodwill Outlets. In this space between traditional thrifting and heaps of donated goodies lies a gray area where dozens of fashion-hungry people search and sift through unwanted clothes and other items. I’m a rookie in the realm of thrifting, yet as we were about to move toward the cashier line, we spotted a disassembled jumble of legs and arms. I was initially hesitant to purchase such an odd assortment of mannequin parts, as the purpose of their use would be a mystery. Soon an idea was formulated in my noggin: to transport the mannequin to a new home. For too long it had been unwanted, cast away into the shadows, and in one simple act I could reclaim this lost piece of history and throw it into the limelight. To sweeten the deal, it was only $15, which was reduced to $10 once I revealed my interest to an employee. A tattered darkened husk of a plastic body–a proponent of designer clothing store displays–now found in a garbage pit of bustling shoppers. I knew at once this would be a rescue mission. Against my classmate’s better impulses and in line with what I knew my friends would enjoy, I purchased the headless mannequin in its entirety of disassembled pieces. She was soon named Rachel; her limbs were thrown into the back of my trunk. Later that day, I dropped off Rachel’s limbs at my friends’ apartment near campus, and they were taken in with loving and appreciative arms. I didn’t end up seeing Rachel again until about a week or two later when I visited the apartment and we were reunited. In the time that had passed, she had grown to amass something of a fanbase, many residents of the apartment greeting her on the porch as they entered and exited.  Now, she appeared confidently dressed in pajamas and a T-shirt. Soon the musicians entered the stage, which was actually the porch itself. It was Rachel’s moment to finally become the center of attention she was always meant to be. I took Rachel off the stage and carried her to the crowd of dozens, in which she became an instant party idol.  One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Discarded and lost a couple weeks ago, and being sold for dirty cheap dollars, Rachel was just that only a few weeks prior. Everybody deserves a second chance at redemption, and to me that’s what this felt like. As we enjoyed the concert towards the end raindrops began to fall. In the great evacuation of the porch concert electrical wires from impending watery doom, I grabbed Rachel to bring her inside as well.  I screamed her name like Harvey Dent does in “The Dark Knight” and rushed up a winding narrow staircase as, tragically, her legs became detached from her torso. Carrying both pieces up the stairs and screaming her name like a mantra as many people made their way past me, likely observing me as a goofball, I finally laid her to rest. Is it too much to make sense of this confusing world? Was Rachel just the center of attention because she was different from the rest? Or can respect actually be earned through true personality, charisma and kindness? I don’t know all the answers, and I surely don’t pretend to.  Everyone wants to belong, and everyone wants to fit in whether they admit it or not. It’s built into us like a survival instinct, as to join others you logically increase your chances of survival. Rachel wasn’t even Rachel until I called her that and gave her a home. There are people out there that you’ll never meet if you don’t start the first conversation, or lend a helping hand. Sure, some connections are coincidences. Yet it’s in us to make a free-willed decision to take that chance. It’s quite possible I was acting on impulse when I bought that pile of plastic limbs. All the same, however, sometimes you have to trust your gut. Now you might be dismissing this as a case that doesn’t apply to real life, but I would argue it does. Be yourself. Be weird. Be embarrassing and seek out discomfort in everyday life or else how will you be able to really grow? If you’re content all the time in your room, would you have ever frolicked with a Goodwill-sourced mannequin in the midst of a hundred college students while a band played on a porch? I think not. Seek the adventure. Go outside. Touch grass. Alright that’s a little on the nose.  It’s just I can’t shake the feeling that a lot of people do not understand that what other people think of you most of the time doesn’t matter or carry any actual weight?  The worst thing that could happen is you might be judged. But Rachel, oh Rachel, there’s one thing about her.  Rachel doesn’t judge.

SATIRE Pip Iguana Pinto, local pawfluencer, is making the rounds in headlines. Just as in previous times, she’s not sorry. I had the opportunity to sit down with Pinto to get more insight on the situation and to learn more about how she’s processing her fame. A new men’s litterbox was added to the first floor of the Pinto Tower. Although the litterbox Pinto uses has been on the second floor for years, with her own special door that only Pinto can go through, the star had to try out the men’s litterbox when it was added. “It’s new,” Pinto says. This is nothing out of the ordinary for the feline celebrity. One of her previous antics was peeing on the carpet because she was in a onesie and “didn’t feel like walking to the box.” She also went viral after being caught on video licking cat treats on display at a PetSmart and not paying for them. The star-studded kitten takes a second to collect her thoughts before she continues: “And another thing! The new box is stainless steel. Mine is plastic. It’s tiny. Meanwhile, the men’s box is like the size of a mansion. Why do male cats always get the better option? I think it’s sexist.” Pinto views using the men’s litterbox as an act of rebellion. She wants better conditions for women’s litterboxes. Stainless steel should be for everybody. She’s telling the patriarchy to back off. She doesn’t care about rules or expectations. Pinto will pee wherever she pleases. There’s a sudden disturbance during the interview when the paparazzi start banging on the window. They must have realized Pinto was here when they saw her custom Range Rover with the pawprint headlights. Flashes of light keep shining into the room as Pinto tries to keep her composure. “Pip! We love you! Can we get a picture?” a man with a camera asks, screaming from behind the window. Pinto sticks up her middle paw pad. Her manager walks over to the window and closes the curtains. After that, Pinto gets up and uses the curtains to sharpen her claws. She mentions that she hasn’t gotten her claws done in a while so she’s been forced to take care of them herself. She sits back down to continue the interview. “I hate when that happens,” Pinto says. “ They’re like vultures. They have no consideration for other people.” She pulls out a cigarette and puts it in her mouth, waiting for her manager to come over with the lighter. We start to discuss how she’s been processing her recent surge in popularity. She’s quiet for a moment, but then begins to open up. “I won’t lie. It’s been pretty challenging,” Pinto says while twirling the cigarette around in her paw. She makes a sniffling noise. “If I go anywhere , someone is bound to know who I am. I love the attention, but I also miss the anonymity.”  The cat starts speaking in a softer tone. “Before all this, I was just another brown tabby,” Pinto says. “No one would even give me a second look if I passed by them on the sidewalk. Now, I can’t even go outside. I miss it.” Let it be known that prior to her quick rise to fame, Pinto was raised as a strictly indoor cat. Moving onto the topic of the future, the sky is the limit for Pinto. She explains that she never wants to stay in just one lane.  “That’s for losers who only have one talent,” Pinto says. Her goal is to conquer the entire world. She won’t stop until she is a household name. “I’m talking about movies, shows, record deals, books and of course, a podcast. That’s the ultimate dream,” Pinto says with hope laced in her voice. The last time we had as notorious a feline pop culture multi-hyphenate was the famous Grumpy Cat. That cat was on every talk show known to man. She even had a Christmas movie where Aubrey Plaza played her. I ask if Pinto pulls any of her inspiration from the kitty with a permanent frown. There’s a pause and a look of confusion.  “Who? I’ve never heard of her,” Pinto says. “Then again, I wouldn’t know much from the olden days. I’m pretty young.” Finding no ashtray, Pinto puts the cigarette out on her manager’s arm. Reaching the end of our time together, I ask Pinto if she has any advice for other cats who want to make it into the business. She takes off her sunglasses and stares directly into my eyes.  “No matter what they do, they’ll never be as successful as me. Because no one can ever be me. There’s only one ‘Pip.’ Well, except for that chipmunk from that one Disney movie. That’s who I’m named after,” Pinto says. “Nevertheless, I dare them to try.”

SATIRE Photo Credits: Me. These are my crawl space squirrels. Say hi. Sept. 9 at 8 p.m. of this year marked the beginning of the enriching experience that was the three new additions to my life.   I was alone in my apartment—a rare occasion since I shared the space with two friends, so I decided to turn in early and get a head start on my nighttime routine.  Standing in the middle of my bathroom and scrolling through my music playlist, I heard what sounded like drips of water. Even more startling, I looked down and saw that my socks were wet. Water was leaking from the crawl space above my bathroom where the air vent resides.  Exasperated, I reach up to see what could possibly be leaking when the smell hits me.  No, this wasn’t a leak. It was pee. And looking down at me through the gap of my air vent was the beady gaze of a squirrel. Its cute little face pressed into the gap as it urinated all over my recently swept, vacuumed and mopped bathroom floor. Exasperation aside, I didn’t want to be rude, as the furry little friend was clearly trying to introduce itself.  Our first impression must have gone over well because soon after we locked eyes and I screamed in shock, it began growling with joy and clawing at the open gap with such fervor that caulk and plaster sprinkled into my eyes and nose, momentarily blinding me.  Now this could be taken as a mildly traumatizing experience, but I took it as a compliment. It isn’t everyday that someone likes your apartment so much they try to move in.  But like any responsible and kindhearted adult, I worried for the safety of such a delicate creature going so ballistic above my head. I took some precautions so it wouldn’t get through the gap and fall onto such hard tile (I called pest control).   But as the universe saw fit, I learned that pest control doesn’t take calls in the evening... nor do they handle animals inside a home, because why would they ever do that? But this was certainly a blessing in disguise. If pest control had come when I called, I wouldn’t have met the rest of the family upstairs.  When I reentered the bathroom, there wasn’t one pair of paws nor two, but three pairs reaching for me with violent passion, clearly unsatisfied with my crawl space and would much rather be inside my home.    Call me introverted, but meeting three new residents was just too much for me, especially as they all chirped, growled and yowled at me all like a choir.  Sadly, our apartment lease had strict rules on how many occupants can reside in the apartment. At midnight, when all my current roommates came back home, we did have to notify our landlord (you would have thought the presence of three squirrels in a crawl space would be considered an emergency. Turns out it isn’t). While the individual we talked to on the phone was very kind and worried, animal control was not… meaning both the landlord and apartment residents pestered animal control for months to come help the poor squirrels and were met with broken promises and radio silence.  But the past two months of radio silence from animal control bloomed into my roommates and I bonding with our mildly threatening companions in our crawl space.  How could you not get attached when for the past couple months you have had to duck and cover your head under the crawl space to not get peed on? Or the fact that at about 6 p.m. you can hear them scratching, chewing and cracking objects above your head while trying to use the bathroom. Or my favorite—the squirrels chewing on wires that made our light flicker and sitting on the bathroom light making it sag from the ceiling. The constant reminders of their presence became a comfort to us all.  My favorite memory of the furry friends is that their arrival in our crawl space somehow aligned with everyone in the apartment, me included, developing an unknown sickness that plagued us for weeks. Good times.  Another month of no-show animal control turned us into detectives. We were perplexed on how these squirrels seamlessly entered and exited the crawl space, so we sleuthed around outside. Our furry friends were geniuses and used tree branches that laid against our roof as a convenient ladder to hop right into our crawl space. I mean, come on. With that level of ingenuity, who could be mad? But wait, there’s more—they came prepared. The squirrels also realized brick is the perfect wall-scaling material, and wires are easy to grab as rope. Not only do they use the tree branches, but they can also rock climb the building to the roof like a squirrel Spider-Man variant. So really, it was a matter of when and how we all met.  But like all good things, it must come to an end. After three wonderful months of coexisting, they were humanely removed from our crawl space…evicted. Their entrance was closed off by maintenance. I find myself missing the constant state of fear and edge they would put me in when I entered my bathroom.  Before they were evicted, however, they left us a few parting gifts. When the outdoor temperature gets a little too warm, our bathroom smells faintly of barnyard and pee, assuring that we never forget our former pawed residents.  When they resided above us, they made a cute little nest that animal control forgot to remove with the tenants, so if the vent is on, occasionally a dusting of leaves and bark will sprinkle atop your head. It helps me feel especially refreshed and ready for the day when I get out of the shower and nest confetti sticks to my freshly washed head.  Occasionally they pay us a visit, climbing to my bedroom window sill and yowling outside from dawn to dusk. They scratch at the window pane and wave hello to me while I try to get work done in peace. It’s like they know when I need a break.  They haunt the narrative, if you will, reminding me of the bond we shared these past few months and the memories we created together.  I wish the best for my new friends and the next phase of their lives. I appreciate all that they gifted us—the lasting remnants they left behind, that we have the pleasure to deal with to this day.

It’s 2:19 a.m. The house is quiet. Not a peaceful quiet, but that heavy  silence that makes you aware of every small sound. The hum of the fridge. The click of the heater. The clock seems louder than usual. Everyone else is asleep. It feels like the whole world is holding its breath, and I am the only one  awake. I should be asleep too. But I’m sitting here in the glow of my screen, thinking about something that keeps circling in my head. The person you are when no one’s watching. That version of yourself. The one that shows up when the world goes still and there’s no one to impress or perform for. The one that doesn’t care what your face looks like or what anyone thinks. During the day, it feels like I switch through many  different versions of myself. There’s the one that smiles at teachers, the one that tries to sound normal with friends, the one that pretends not to care too much about anything. Sometimes I catch myself laughing a certain way or saying things that don’t even feel like me. It’s like I’m building a character that people will like better than the real thing. But then the day ends. The lights go off. The noise fades. And I’m left with only me That’s when it feels strange. Because when all the people and the expectations are gone, I’m not totally sure who I am. When no one’s watching, I talk to myself out loud sometimes. I snicker to myself. I scroll through old memories. I think about things I never say out loud. I let my brain wander to all the stuff I hide behind jokes and small talk. I’m not funny then. I’m not confident. I’m  a person trying to figure things out. It’s weird how different we can be when we’re alone. Not better or worse, just… real. When no one’s there to tell you how you should act, you stop pretending. You stop holding your stomach in or picking the right words. You just exist. It’s not always comfortable. Sometimes being alone with yourself feels like standing in front of a mirror for too long. You start to notice every little flaw, every thought you’ve tried to ignore. You see the person you actually are instead of the person you want to be. And that can be hard. Because what if you don’t always like that person? What if the quiet version of you feels a little lost, lonely or tired? I think that’s the version that matters most. The person you are when no one’s watching is the one who feels the truth first. The one who knows what you actually care about. The one who remembers who you wanted to be before you started caring what everyone else thought. When no one’s watching, the mask drops. You can cry without feeling dramatic or judged. You can dream without feeling stupid. You can say what you think without worrying if it sounds weird or will draw eyes. That person might not be the one the world sees, but they’re real. Maybe the most real. Sometimes I think about how strange it is that so much of who we are is never seen. No one knows about the conversations we have in our heads or the moments we talk ourselves through something painful. No one sees the way we sit in the dark and try to make sense of it all. Those parts of us are invisible. But they’re the reason we keep going. I guess being alone isn’t just about silence. It’s about meeting yourself again. Without the noise. Without the pretending. And maybe that’s something we all need more of. The truth is, we’ll spend most of our lives switching between different versions of ourselves. Over time, I’ve learned you shouldn’t put on a character. You should embrace who you are. And if the people around you think of you a different way… they aren’t people you should be around. Maybe that’s what growing up is. Learning to bring a little more of that real self into the daylight. Being brave enough to let the world see the person you are at 2 a.m., even if it’s messy, even if it’s not perfect. So here I am. It’s 2:19 a.m. The glow of my screen is fading, and the silence feels heavier now. But in this moment, I feel honest. I feel like myself. Not the version everyone else gets, just me — tired, overthinking, wondering, existing. The person I am when no one’s watching. And for now, that feels like enough.

SATIRE I  recently came to the conclusion that my life is a sociological experiment being run by a bored graduate student in heaven. There is no other explanation for the absurdity of my schedule. If my calendar were a person, it would be that exhausted mom in the grocery store, dragging a screaming toddler while clutching a venti iced coffee (extra espresso) and whispering to herself, "Just three more aisles. You can do this." I used to think time management was about balance. Turns out it is more like spinning plates on fire while people keep handing you more plates and those plates are also babies (because I’m also a newborn photographer). Or fires. Or film projects. Probably all three. There is this myth floating around campus that I am "high functioning." I do not know who started that rumor, but I want them prosecuted. Every time someone sees me walking quickly with a backpack, a laptop, a tripod, and a coffee, they say things like, "You are so organized" or "You look so put together." Meanwhile, I have not eaten a vegetable since Easter, and  my backpack is  a black hole. If you dropped a tracking device into it, it would never see the light of day again. People also say, "I do not know how you do it all." I don’t either. The secret is that I do not do it all. I do about 47 percent of things fully, 38 percent halfway, and the rest through a series of strategic nodding and hoping people stop asking questions. I call it “the illusion of competence.” It is performance art. I am basically Banksy, except instead of murals I leave behind unresolved Google Docs and files titled "FINAL FINAL REAL FINAL VERSION." Someone once asked, "How are you so productive?" I stared at them silently like an owl. If I ever write a book on time management, it will just say: Drink coffee, be dramatic, trust fate. Let me walk you through a day in the life of a normal, healthy college student. Just kidding. Let me walk you through mine. 8 a.m. Wake up. Actually, I wake up at 6:45 when my alarm goes off, but I do that thing where I tell myself I will only close my eyes for two more minutes. When I open them again, it is 8 a.m. 8:07 a.m. Arrive at class. Just kidding. I am finding shoes and arguing with myself about whether black-on-black outfits count as effort. I decide it is enough effort. Then, further decide  that sunglasses worn indoors convey power. 9 a.m. Next class. No one has printed the assignment that was due. Including me. We all make eye contact like a silent pact. If no one mentions it, maybe the assignment never existed. Schrodinger’s homework. 10 a.m. Check the group chat. There are 93 messages. They are mostly memes and one person asking if we can meet today at 3 p.m. even though we have established multiple times that 3 p.m. is literally the worst time for everyone. I sip my coffee like a CEO of chaos and type "Yeah, that works," knowing very well it does not. 12 p.m. Work on my film project. Which means stare at footage, question my life choices, and spend at least 12 minutes arguing with B-roll that refuses to sync. Eventually, I give up and whisper to the footage, "Please be reasonable." The footage is not reasonable. 1 p.m. Lunch. Except not really. I eat a granola bar from the bottom of my bag. Technically, this counts as foraging. 2 p.m. A professor emails me. Something about deadlines. Something about professionalism. I add the email to the mental list titled “I will respond later.” Spoiler: I will not respond later. 3 p.m. Meetings. We talk about scheduling. For one hour. We accomplish nothing. Someone suggests using a shared calendar. I am the one who suggested using a shared calendar three weeks ago. Everyone agrees, like it is the first time anyone has ever had this revolutionary thought.  I stare into the void. 5 p.m. Cradle a newborn while telling parents, "Look at your beautiful miracle of life." Meanwhile, I am quietly dehydrated, emotionally unstable and held together by mascara and adrenaline. 8 p.m. I decide tonight is the night I get my life together. I say the words "I am going to exercise" out loud as if I'm giving a historic speech. I put on leggings, tie my sneakers and fill my water bottle with the confidence of a woman who has never abandoned a plan before. I even open a workout app. Then I sit on my bed for one second to "check something" and suddenly it is 8:47, I have watched nine video essays about how to fold fitted sheets, and my sneakers are back off. I whisper to myself, "Health is a journey." Then I eat cereal straight from the box. 11 p.m. Time to post on social media so everyone remembers I exist. I scroll through my camera roll trying to find a photo. Any photo. Instead, I find 286 accidental screenshots and a picture of my elbow. Eventually, I pick something passable and edit it with the precision of a NASA engineer. I write a caption that looks effortless (took 17 drafts). The post goes up. I immediately close the app like I just committed a crime. Five minutes later I reopen it to check who liked it. The cycle continues. 1 a.m. Finally in my bed. Ignore homework. Ignore emails. Ignore responsibilities. Scroll Pinterest for an hour looking at cottagecore photography setups I will never recreate because I live in New Haven, not a meadow with butterflies. 2 a.m. Set alarm for 6:45. Tell myself tomorrow I will have my life together. Repeat forever. I am not actually a person. I am a concept. A myth. A ghost who appears in different buildings carrying a camera, a coffee and a vision. If I vanish, check the newsroom, the studio, or a hospital where I am aggressively selling newborn portraits. I thrive in chaos. I complain about chaos. I am chaos. And honestly, I would not have it any other way.

Welcome to Resilience 101, a quick course that will show you how to continue, to persevere and teach you the importance of not giving up. In this course we will be asking the big question, “What does resilience mean to you?” By definition, resilience means, “the capacity to withstand or recover quickly from difficulties; toughness.” For our first lesson, you will learn that resilience is a choice, not a characteristic. Resilience is not a trait or  talent, nor something you are born with and it's not something you either do or don’t have. Resilience is a behavior and it is a state of mind which can only be shown and reflected through your thoughts and actions toward challenges. More specifically it’s about maintaining yourself in the face of adversity and standing on business. Another thing that often gets mixed up is if resilience is about adaptability or flexibility. While flexibility can be seen as a good thing, I think it’s about conforming your needs to help meet others' needs. It’s almost  about compromising your wants so you can see eye-to-eye with another person. But adaptability is about completely shifting your approach and mindset when something isn’t working, it's your way of survival. In a storm you can either risk the chance of not making it or you can build yourself a shelter in the middle of it. The first step is self-awareness. You must be able to know strengths and weaknesses so that you build your personal traits and know when to take advantage of them. Resilience is all about toughness and the effort you put into it. The efforts in being mentally, emotionally and physically strong are all important as you face a variety of life challenges. Being resilient takes effort. A small setback can often feel like a lot, but in order to get past it, you must look around it and remember that it isn’t permanent. You should also recognize that you are in control of your emotions and how you decide to handle the challenges you face. You contain the most power in a situation, not because it’s in your control, but because you can control your emotions and actions toward it. By knowing how to regulate your emotions, you learn how to calm yourself, overcome your fears and let go of any anger you may be holding. These emotions often prevent you from moving forward. It’s good to know how to recognize your feelings and have a mechanism to regulate those emotions.  Your resilience becomes strengthened as you begin to anticipate your challenges. As the clichéd saying goes, “you have to stay ready, so you don’t have to get ready.” That means mentally, emotionally and or physically. As you prepare yourself to have a positive response toward a challenge, you’re less likely to feel the pressure so you ultimately accept any changes.  Although changes may be foreign for you, fighting what will inevitably happen will only drain you and make you want to give up rather than navigate. Life is constantly moving, whether it’s for you or against you. You have to laugh to remind yourself that your toughest moments shall pass. I know I’m not perfect. And to be completely honest, even right now as I am getting better, I still fail. But I know that I have to push myself. I’m doing this for so many reasons, and if I give up now, I let go of so much that could come. I keep my resilience, even in frustration and even when I cry. Maybe that’s because that is what’s left for me to hang onto. But what I’m continuing to learn is that it’s the smallest amount of effort, the mustard seed-size of resilience you keep, that makes the biggest difference. That tiny “I won't quit” is all you need to begin your journey. Once you’ve found it, hold onto it. Nurture it. Watch how it helps you recover faster, push harder and ultimately discover your true strength.  So, what does resilience mean to you?

SATIRE No one ever in the wildest dreams ever expects to be viewed as THAT person. The person who ends up experiencing such a tragic event that they are forever known by it. They are marked by the thing that happened to them, the thing that is so unspeakable, so… traumatic.  This is my story.  My daily walks are part of my special routine and it is something that I pride myself in; they're my way to decompress after a hard day crossing the road. My path is always the same from the roads, past the school and right through the woods. I’ve done it everyday since I could remember. That all changed on Clucktober 29. As I was coming to the clearing where I would typically enter the woods, I suddenly felt something hit my head.  It was a feeling I had never quite experienced before. It was a small but  mighty plop, leaving a small sting that lingered on my head. I reached up to grab it and found it was a small and round little thing that almost looked like it was wearing a hat. I immediately knew what it was… a piece of the sky. My stomach dropped as I realized more and more what this meant. “THE SKY IS FALLING!” I yelled in a panic as I began to run the other way.  I knew I needed to tell everyone and spread the news. They all needed to know what was happening. I mean who wouldn’t want to know that it’s their last day on Earth? Because I was in such a heightened state of worry, I zoomed through the street screaming “THE SKY IS FALLING, THE SKY IS FALLING.”  On my way through town, I could see the panic being incited by everyone–mothers trying to shield their babies from the panic. Citizens speeding through the streets in an attempt to reach their loved ones. I felt terrible for the destruction caused by my message but it did not matter. I couldn’t stop until everyone knew what was happening. It was my duty to let them know. I sped and sped as fast as any chicken could go until I made it to the town square, where I could share my news at the podium. As I confidently walked up to the podium, I was prepared to make my statement. I tapped on the microphone and was greeted with some quick minor feedback and the attention of all the citizens of Cluck Haven staring back at me. Through fear and nervousness I stood up and stated, “Citizens of Cluck Haven, as I am sure you heard today, during my regular 2:30 p.m. walk, a piece of the sky fell on my head.” Citizens began to shift from a state of panic to a blend of fear and intrigue as I spoke. “I am here to present you all with the piece that hit me.”  The crowd's intrigue grew as I pulled out the round little brown thing with a hat once again. “May I present you all with a piece of the sky.” I had succeeded in letting the citizens know the horrific news and I could now present my findings. I pulled out the sky and held it proud for the world to see. But something changed. Suddenly the face that was once a look of intrigue turned into confusion and exasperation. I just couldn’t fathom why.  “THAT’S AN ACORN YOU MORON!” I heard someone yell from the crowd. Strings of screams and profanities were aimed at me as I tried to fight back, “IT’S THE SKY! I SWEAR IT IS! JUST LOOK! NO ACORN LOOKS LIKE THIS.” But that was it. The people made their choice. The sky wasn’t falling, and me… I was just viewed as “crazy Chicken Little.” Life would never be the same after that. The next few days were extremely hard to get through. I was shunned by all of my friends and the town decided it would be best if I went to a center for troubled chickens. Tysons Home for Future Dino Nuggets, they called it. When I was admitted, I brought the piece of the sky with me. Everyone here believes me but that's not enough. My own town disregarded my warning and shamed me. So now I’m here at Tysons, wondering how I can ever get Cluck Haven to understand that the sky is falling and it fell on me. Thank you all for listening.

I wandered through a world of noise,  Where silence used to scream.  Each echo told a tale undone,  Each shadow held a painful wound. My heart longs for belonging and safety. The faces I pass blur into one endless crowd. Everyone seemed to know who they were and where they were supposed to be. Here I stood still, unable to move a muscle. Letting the world rush past me, wondering whether I will learn to move like them. In the end, the noise never became familiar. I remained a foreigner, and it stayed foreign to me. Its sharp edges cutting through every moment I try to hold on to.  I learned too soon that dreams are a luxury,  Life does not wait.  The stars forgot to shine,  Even the man on the moon turned away. There was a time when I believed in things. A time when I believed that every star in the sky was shining just for me. I believed in small things: birthday wishes, coins tossed into fountains and dandelion seeds floating away with whispered hopes. This wishful thinking required a kind of innocence that seems to have slipped out of my hands before I even understood what it meant to have it. The starry night became just a sky. Dark, empty and indifferent to my desire to see it shine again. I’d look up hoping to see something, feel something, anything but the stars looked away. And the moon, my old companion and guide for lonely Haitian children, turned his face from me, even it knew I was beyond repair.  I skipped years of scraped-up knees,  Of laughter in the sun.  Played grown-up in a broken world,  Before my time came.  Other children were learning to ride bikes and sharing secrets at sleepovers. I was learning how to survive. While other children were drowning in their parents' love, I was learning a different kind. I learned to read a room. How to make my voice smaller. How to calculate the weight of life. I became fluent in the kind of language that others don’t have to start learning until they are adults. There were no training wheels for the lessons I learned. No gentle introduction, just a sudden, harsh slap into a reality that didn’t care whether I was ready for it.  The kind of love you only hear about, But never see stay. Four walls cold and gray, Nothing in, nothing out. I learned about love from books and movies. It would be a lie if I couldn’t admit the jealous ache I feel watching other families through the same pair of eyes I watched mine fall apart. Love seems like a myth, a fairy tale meant for other people. The love I knew was always temporary and one wrong move away from vanishing. Or maybe it was never there at all, and I was just holding on to emptiness. The walls around my heart grew higher and stronger; they keep everything out. They also keep me trapped inside alone with the echo of my own heartbeat.  I read of catching children, Before they slipped away. But no one stood the rye for me, No hands to hold, no names to call. I search for answers and I search for someone, anyone who would understand me. Holden Caulfield and his dream of saving children from falling off the cliff, of keeping them safe in their innocence. I understood that dream so deeply it hurt. Understanding that dream also meant that I knew I’d already fallen. There was no Catcher at the edge waiting for me. I fell alone, in silence and no one came looking for me. By the time I had landed, I was someone, something different. Someone older, harder, colder and more careful than anyone should have to be.  A swing that never swayed. A childhood I can almost touch, Touched memories with trembling hands, Each one too faint to kiss. There is a playground in my mind; I visit it sometimes in my loneliest moments. It has swings, slides and all the typical pieces of a normal childhood. But when I reach out, nothing moves. The swings hang still, the slides lead nowhere, the sandbox is empty. I stand in the middle of this frozen scene, close enough to touch but never close enough to have. I get to stand there and see what I missed, knowing that it only exists as a shadow in my mind. A ghost of a life I was supposed to live, but never got to do so.

Whether it is misremembering or a sickening form of nostalgia, something sinister hangs over memories of movies from our youth.  Never in my life has any current movie given me the same sense of primal fear as some childhood movies have given me. The heart racing and stomach sinking feeling that films like “Where the Wild Things Are” and “James and the Giant Peach” have given me have not been matched by any modern horror movie I have watched recently.  Yes, “Where the Wild Things Are” and “James and the Giant Peach”. The two titles are not a mistake. I am convinced these two movies have forever altered how I feel about fear. “James and the Giant Peach” directed by Henry Selick: Credited to: Henry Selick. 1996. James and the Giant Peach [Film].   Walt Disney Pictures. Childhood movies are obsessed with surrealism. The fantastical imagination and whimsical storyline is captivating for a younger audience, yet at the same time terrifying for my child self. Live action and stop motion claymation was fuel for nightmares to come.  The mindbending transition of James changing from a real boy to a doll-like figure while also being aware of his own change was horrifying to me. The hyperawareness of James's ability to process his physiological change gave me goosebumps and made the younger me think it was a real-life situation.  The color shift was jarring as well. The live action scenes are washed in a gloomy blue haze. James is pale and his aunts look sickly and villainish under such a dull light. Their colorful clothes are washed out and dimmed, making once vibrant clothes look old and weathered with time.  The claymation causes a brutal shift to vibrance. Colorful light dances across the screen and every color seems pitched to the brightest potential. It was as overwhelming as a funhouse and my eyes couldn’t adjust fast enough.  To add disorientation, “James and the Giant Peach” introduces a cast of wacky talking bugs that act as his guardians, yet they are equally as antagonistic at times to James on their journey to help him find a better life.  The film also plays on common childhood fears. As James and his unsettling companions travel through their quest, sailing on a giant peach in the ocean, you witness their near death when they are almost eaten by sharks, nearly drowned, and their peach boat is nearly sunk in the middle of the ocean, leaving them stranded.  As a result, I gained a new fear of oceans that day and have yet to step foot into one at 20 years old.  What scared me the most was witnessing a story of an abused child cope through escapism. This story at the end of the day is about James escaping the abuse and neglect of his aunts. This fantastical world is the imagination of a boy finding solace in a surreal world where he escapes and starts his life over again.  The ending can be interpreted in different ways, but when I was younger I always thought of it as a childish interpretation of a daydream. A daydream in which James dreams of the promise that life will get better once he’s older. This unsettled me to my core as a child, and made me process some of the dark realities of life that are usually avoided or considered taboo to introduce to kids.  I couldn’t recommend a better movie this Halloween. Even though this movie haunted me as a child, it is an interesting watch to dive into as an adult. I found myself appreciating the way they tackled such a topic.  “Where the Wild Things Are” directed by Spike Jonze Credited to: Spike Jonze. 2009. Where the Wild Things Are [Film]. Warner Bros.  My parents set me up for failure with this movie. While I was safely at home watching “James and the Giant Peach”, they threw me to the wolves when we sat in a movie theater to watch “Where the Wild Things Are”.  I was met with a child in instant peril as gigantic, humanoid, animalistic, growling, sharp-toothed  and clawed monsters chase the main character, Max, through the woods trying to eat and or maim him. On the big screen, I witnessed Max running for his life while I was stuck in a dark movie theater between my parents who couldn’t care less for the peril this kid was in.  If you strain your ears through the pounding of paws on the ground and the snarls of the Things, you can hear Max screaming and crying through the woods. The sheer volume of this scene made me burst into tears in the theater.  This is an intense scene for a kids movie, and it scared a few years off of my life at that very moment.  Easing my heart, a friendly Thing saved Max, and everything was settled within the Things and Max’s presence on the island. He even becomes the King of the Wild Things and rules over them by problem solving and handling the Things’ outbursts—which are equally as terrifying to witness.  Carol is one of the Things that has the biggest conflicts with Max. They are a representation of anger and aggression. Their outbursts are violent and rage induced, and on multiple occasions almost hurts Max and other Things during an episode. It is distressing to witness a child in genuine danger, especially when you are a child yourself.  The theater really expands that fear, with a screen so wide there is no way to truly distance yourself from what you are seeing and hearing. I remember feeling the rumble of the fights and the yelling in my chest.  Guilt and self-accountability is another theme within this movie that struck a different type of fear into me, when I was younger… reflection over my actions.  The whole premise of “Where the Wild Things Are” is about how Max, as a young boy, is learning to cope with big feelings as he grows up. In this story of self-discovery, he acts out towards his parents and gets into fights with them that leaves both them and Max hurt by each other.  In the end, of course, it concludes with Max understanding and processing his emotions and his actions, while being forgiven by both himself and his parents for the past.  Well, younger me didn’t understand the memo and began overthinking everything I have ever done and said within the short amount of time I was alive. This movie gave me a taste of a midlife crisis at the ripe age of five years old.  The experience of “Where the Wild Things Are” left such an impacting fear in me, I refused to rewatch the movie in preparation for this article. I also refused to look through scene clips because to this day I still feel such a powerful sense of dread. From these two movies, my opinion on horror will forever be set to a high standard. Horror doesn’t have to be a slasher or supernatural. Sometimes horror is created accidentally through the unsupervised mind of a child, which leaves a lasting mark in their mind.